


Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by Lithugraph (lithugraph)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, America is not the Hero (Hetalia), Angelique "White-Dudes-Are-So-Fucking-Annoying" Mancham, Café, Gen, M/M, Mathieu "I'm-Dead-Inside" Williams, Rare Pair, Smooth Jazz Duo, World War II, also featuring apprearances by:, and a cat, casablanca - Freeform, he's actually pretty cynical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2018-10-06 10:23:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10332494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithugraph/pseuds/Lithugraph
Summary: "Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door." During WWII, Europeans seeking refuge in America must first pass through Casablanca. Cynical expatriate Alfred Jones, who runs one of the most popular cafes in town, is all too content to profit off these poor souls - until he meets a man who just might change his point of view.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is an AU based off the 1942 movie “Casablanca.”  I don’t own anything but the words (and maaaybe some of the plot) – everything else belongs to Himaruya and Warner Brothers, respectively.  A few quick notes: this is written in an American southern regional style -- not super heavy, like some of Mark Twain's stories -- but it's there.  Just something to be aware of.  I apologize to my international readers if some of the dialect is hard to understand.  A medina is the old city center/non-European quarter of a North African town.  It is typically walled with many maze-like streets.  A coin to pay and Charon both come from Greek mythology – Charon was the ferryman for the underworld and it was customary to pay him a coin for passage. The quote in the summary comes from the inscription on the Statue of Liberty, which is actually a sonnet called The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy!

 

___

 

**I.**

**___**

**June, 1941**

The cat was a smoke-gray scrawny thing with wiry fur and a voice to match.  Its legs and nose were darker than the rest of it, giving it the look of a Siamese rolled in soot.  The tip of its tail bent to the right, like it had been on the bad side of a closing door.  Alfred could hear its yowl echoing through the alleys of the medina as it wended its way from the docks to his cafe, having eaten its fill of fish for the evening.  Sometimes it showed up, a fish head still in its mouth.  Alfred always made it finish its meal before letting it in the cafe. 

He couldn't remember when or why the cat showed up.  It just did.  And stayed.  Like everything else in Casablanca.  Alfred didn't mind the cat.  It did as it pleased, didn't get in the way, and didn't demand anything of him.

Tonight, it was on guard duty.  It sat by the front entrance, its crooked tail giving an occasional flick.  Besides Alfred and the cat, only two other people occupied the cafe.  Two men, sitting at the far end, near the kitchen and back entrance.  The cat had kept its eyes on the men ever since they arrived, its whiskers twitching, as it sniffed the air. 

 The doors to the cafe were open to the warm night, as were the windows, but the breeze from the ocean had died off the moment the sun went down.

 He had heard Africa was hot.  Heard it was diseased, full of corruption and poverty and just about every other shitty cliché you could assign to a place. 

 But in his thirty-three years of living, Alfred had learned you could say those things about anywhere -- even his hometown of Ozona, Texas.  People liked to say those things about places they'd never been to.  Easier'n puttin' in the effort or time it took to really get to know somewhere.

 So they said Africa was dangerous, said that you'd die of heat stroke or in an elephant stampede.

 But they never said what it really was:

 Purgatory. 

 Alfred was sure of it.

 This place. Was Purgatory. 

 The place where souls went to await Judgement. 

 It Existed, this place.  It Was, and Is, and Had Yet To Be.

 Nothing ever changed.  Not the weather.  Not the seasons.  Not the people who came to his café -- a way station for poor souls hoping to pass on to Lisbon, Stockholm, New York, anywhere, so long as it was neutral. 

 Problem was, they never left -- though it wasn’t for lack of tryin’.

They just Became.  Part of the scenery, part of the crowd.  A shade existing just Before the Beyond. 

 Well.  Wasn't his problem anymore.  He was no longer their Charon.  The only thing he ran now were drinks to tables.

_A coin to pay, a coin to play.  Come to Al's Place for Half-Price Drinks on Wednesday_.

 Hmph.  _His_ cafe.  Al's Place: _Café_ _Americain_.  The only thing American about it was him, the owner.  He thought about changing the name a dozen times but never did.  Another thing to add to the list of never-gonna-happens.

 It stood on the very edge of the medina, his cafe.  In the northernmost corner of what Casablanca had been, before the French came.  The medina's narrow, labyrinthine streets gave it the old world charm many tourists sought when they came to Morocco, harkening back to exotic tales of mystery and intrigue, flying carpets and magic lamps.  (It also came in mighty handy for making a quick getaway.  Easy to lose the Vichy gendarmes through the twisting maze of the medina's inner walls). 

 But Al's Place....

 Al's Place was respectable.  Faced the docks, ready to scoop up tourists and refugees with open arms.  An oasis in a thieves’ den.  _Welcome, welcome.  Stay awhile.  Lemme take your coat, your hat.  Have a sit, have a drink!  Next ship don't leave 'til mornin'.  What's the rush, what's your hurry?  It's only a coin to pay...._

 A fly buzzed by his ear.  He swatted at it lazily and glanced over the top of his specs.  Damn fans weren't doing their job.  Well.  How could they?  Only turnin' at quarter speed.  Really no need t' crank 'em up.  Casablanca hardly ever got hot.  Not like Ozona.

 They said Africa was hot.

 He'd lived in hotter.

 They said Africa was poor.

 He'd seen poorer.

 He licked his finger and turned a page of his newspaper. 

 Smoke from incense burners hung low over the tables and chairs, a hazy blanket perfuming the air with the dark scent of frankincense.  It helped cover the smell of sweat and cheap tobacco that seemed to stick to places like his.  Also helped with the flies -- except for the stubborn one that would not leave his ear alone. 

 Alfred swatted his hand again, faster this time, and clocked himself on the jaw.  He stole a quick glance around, thankful no one had seen.  The cafe was empty, save for two heads at the far end.  Only thing that seemed outside the Static Equilibrium that governed this place was the number of faces he saw on a given night.  It had been a slow week.

 Alfred ran a hand through his hair, about to return to his paper, when a head topped with a Panama hat stepped in from the dark street.

 Alfred glanced at his watch and snorted.

 Francis.

 He should have known.

_How_ the Frenchman managed to arrive at nine o'clock on the dot every single time was beyond him.

 Francis swept the hat from his head as he entered the cafe and glanced around as if trying to decide where to sit.  He spotted Alfred at the bar with an affected look of surprise which morphed into a guiling grin.  He held out his hand, which was immediately taken by the slender, caramel fingers of someone in the shadow of the door.  Francis brought the hand to his lips as a woman stepped in.  Her long black hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, exposing a striking and smoky-eyed face.  She looked like a singer, Alfred thought.

Francis made his way to the bar, fanning his hat at the cloud of incense.  The woman followed, not bothering to hide her disdain as she took in the cafe.

The cat followed them both, its surveillance of the two men at the far end interrupted by Francis' arrival.  It twined figure eight patterns around his legs, yowling for attention.  Francis scooped it up, scratching it under its chin.  He set the cat on the bar and took out a handful of treats from his jacket pocket.  The cat purred in appreciation.

 "You keep feedin' that thing, it'll never leave," Alfred said.

 "Who wants to leave?  This place is paradise," Francis said with a wink.  He stroked the cat between its ears as it gobbled up the last bite.  It sniffed Francis's fingers, looking for more.  "Ah, I am sorry _mon petit chaton!_ I have nothing else."

 The cat licked his fingers then hopped down and resumed its post.

 "Alfred, my friend.  It has been too long," Francis sighed.

 Alfred cocked an eyebrow.  "You call a week 'too long?'"

 "Well, you know what I mean," Francis said vaguely, waving his hand.  He took a seat.  The woman settled next to him, offering Alfred a bored " _Bonsoir."_

 Alfred couldn't help but stare as he nodded back. 

 "She's pretty, _non?"_ Francis said, following Alfred's gaze.  "But not quite to your tastes, I should think."

 Alfred shrugged.  "I've been known to bat for the other team."

 "Ah, but only when it suits your interest," Francis winked.

 "Is this your way of tryin' to persuade me to give up my dreams of finding a nice guy to settle down with?"  Alfred pushed his glasses up his nose, trying to look nonchalant.  Some things never changed.

 Francis let out a laugh and drummed his knuckles on the bar top.  He looked around the cafe again, the lift in his brow betraying an anxiousness his smile could not quite hide.

 Alfred lit a cigarette and watched the Frenchman, all too familiar with how these exchanges usually went.  Probably nothing more than one of Francis' cons.  He always tried roping Alfred in, and Alfred had long since lost the tolerance for it.  He liked to think he was no longer the same man he was when they first met.  (Some things never change, 'specially when you were stuck in Purgatory).

 "Somethin' on your mind, chief?"

 Francis visibly started.  His roving eyes snapped up to Alfred's.  "What makes you say that?"

 "'Cause.  You wander in here, free as a breeze, but you got a look to your face.  What is it this time?  The Gestapo on your tail?"  Alfred grinned.

 Francis' face paled.  He glanced around the cafe again. 

 Beside him, the woman seemed to be growing impatient.  She nudged his arm.  Francis hissed something at her in French that Alfred didn't quite get.  She rolled her eyes, giving Alfred a look as if this was somehow all his fault.

 "I don't suppose you could ask them to leave?" Francis said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the cafe's other two occupants.

 Alfred shrugged.  "I could.  But why would I want to?"

 "Because," Francis said, lowering his voice with a conspiratorial look.  "This is important."

 Alfred wasn't buying any of it.  "Cut to the chase already," he spat.

 "I _am!_   That is, I'm _trying_ to...but you're not making this easy, my friend."

 Alfred snorted and shook his head.  "I don't know how many times I got to tell you, whatever you're into, I want no part of it."

 "Just let me talk -- "

 "If you wanna talk to me so bad, come back later, when we're closed.  I've got a business to run, Francis.  A _legitimate_ business."

 "Please -- "

 "I said no!"

 Francis flinched.  His face hardened.  "We've been friends a long time, Alfred -- "

 "That depends on your definition -- "

 " -- and I just...it's just _one_ small favor I need.  It's not money and it's not some new scheme.   I just -- " Francis huffed, cursing under his breath.  "I-I have something.  Something I need kept safe.  Just for a little while."  Francis' eyes flicked over Alfred's shoulder, to the door that led to the upstairs office where he knew the American's _other_ safe was kept.

 Alfred took a long, deliberate drag from his cigarette.  "Sorry, pal.  I'm no longer takin' deposits."

 "Not even for a fee?"  Francis' hand was already reaching for his wallet.

 Alfred shook his head.  "Like I said, bank's closed."

 Francis swore and got to his feet.  "Fine!  Then on your head be it!  Damn stubborn American.  Come, _ma chere,_ it seems I was mistaken."  He held out his hand to the woman.  She took it and stood with a look cold enough to freeze blood.

 Alfred ground out his cigarette and folded his arms, wholly nonplussed.  "Told you, if you wanna talk, come back later -- "

 "There won't _be_ a 'later', my friend.  That is the point!"  Francis wrapped his arm around the woman as they stepped out into the waiting night.

 Alfred watched them go, trying to tell himself he had not been riled by Francis.  A hard thing to do, considering Francis was the closest thing to a friend he'd had in a long time.  They had come to Casablanca together, had crossed the entire goddamn continent together.  And no matter how many times he told himself he wouldn't, he always got sucked into the Frenchman's schemes.  Cycles.  No matter how he tried, he couldn't break out of 'em.  That was the problem with going legit -- it gave you credibility.  

Alfred sighed.  Maybe he shouldn't have been so abrupt.  Maybe he should have played along a little longer.  Odd to see Francis just...blow up like that.  Sure he could be dramatic -- he _was_ French after all.  But still.  Alfred couldn't shake the nagging feeling this really wasn't another con.

 It was a feeling that persisted as the night wore on.  Alfred tried to distract himself from it, mostly through cleaning.  Keepin' your hands movin' kept your mind focused.

 He closed up early that night.  No one else was coming in, and the two customers he did have left shortly after Francis.  One of 'em spoke to him in French as they paid their tab, but his accent was one Alfred couldn't quite place.  He hadn't paid much attention before, when he'd taken their order.  But somehow, after Francis had left, his senses seemed dialed up.  He suddenly found himself aware of everything -- from the shadows sliding across the cafe walls cast by the slowly turning fan blades, to the man's accent and the odd color of his eyes.  Alfred swore they looked red.

 Impossible, he thought, as he watched them go.  No one's eyes were that color.  Had to be a trick of the light, and the fact his mind was whirring at a hundred and ten percent.

 He fixed himself a whiskey, after he locked the doors, and went up to his office to go over the books.  He didn't want to think about Francis.  Or the man with the strange eyes.

 

___

 

o

___

 

 

A sharp pounding jolted him from sleep. 

 Alfred picked his head up, looked around for a dazed moment, and realized he had fallen asleep at his desk.  He adjusted his glasses and squinted at his watch.  Not even half past eleven.  Early, for him.  Alfred ran a hand over his face.  The slow week must be messing with him.  His body felt like it hadn't slept proper in days.

 Another round of knocks -- quick, like a snare drum -- and Alfred hauled himself to his feet, grumbling under his breath.

 The light from the stairwell spilled down into the cafe, dimly illuminating the bar and not much else.  A motion in his periphery caught his attention as he made his way down, making his scalp prickle.  His senses, already on alert from earlier, ratcheted up another notch -- 'til he realized the movement was nothing more than a fan blade.  Coulda _sworn_ he turned those off....

 Alfred hit the switch and drew his arms around him.  He wasn't exactly afraid of the dark.  Rather, he just didn't like the tricks shadows and light could play -- an unfortunate side effect from his years spent in the jungle.

 He went to the front entrance.  Not many people knew about the back -- and those that did, knew to only use it in an emergency.  The front faced the boulevard.  The back dumped you out into the medina.

 As Alfred approached the door, he could hear a few words whispered through the stile.  "Alfred!  Please!  _Ouvre!_   _C'est moi!_ Alfred!  _Ouvre!  C'est moi...."_

 Alfred opened the door and all but had to catch a pale and out-of-breath Francis.  He steadied the Frenchman and shut and locked the door again.

 "Thank you, my friend," Francis breathed.  He was holding his left shoulder, his face damp with sweat, and all Alfred could do was stutter out a lame "Wh-what happened?"

 Francis shrugged and moved the hand holding his shoulder.  A rust-colored smear darkened his palm.

 "Jesus!" Alfred cried, jumping back.

 "It's nothing."

 "Bullshit it's nothin'!  Christ, Francis, what _happened?"_   Alfred steered the Frenchman up to the bar, away from the windows.  The curtains were drawn, but he did not want to take any chances. 

 Alfred sat Francis down on a barstool and realized with a sinking feeling that Francis was alone.

 "Where's your friend?" Alfred asked, lighting a cigarette.  "The woman?"

 Francis looked up with a slightly manic grin.  "I told you, it was important."

 "The hell does that mean?  Francis, where is she?"

 Francis' grin turned to a grimace as he sat up and began undoing his shirt to look at his shoulder.  "Vichy police.  They got her."

 "Shit." 

 "I told you it was important," Francis said again.  He winced as he peeled away his jacket and shirt.  There was a sizable gash from where a bullet had grazed his arm.

 "Here.  Let me," Alfred said, his momentary panic replaced by something that needed doing.  He was already running a cloth under the tap.

 "No," Francis said, gingerly touching the skin around the gash.  "It's okay.  I cannot stay long.  I don't want them to know you helped."

 Alfred took a shaky puff from his cigarette.  "What?  Francis, you're not makin' sense.  You've gotta stay here tonight.  I don't want to hear another word."

 Francis buttoned his shirt up and pressed his hand to the wound.  "I cannot do that.  There isn't enough time.  I managed to lose them in the medina, but not before Angelique was taken.  That's how I got this."  He jerked his head at his injured arm. 

 Alfred was looking apologetic, but Francis shook his head.  "She knew the risks.  As did I."  He gestured for Alfred’s cigarette.  The American obliged.

 "What on earth have you gotten yourself into, my friend?"

 Francis puffed out a laugh.  " Ah, still the same old Alfred.  You only care about me when I'm hurt or in trouble."  He winced again as he reached for something in his jacket pocket.  Alfred drew back, wary.

 "Relax," Francis grinned.  "You asked what I've been into.  Well.  _Voilà."_   

 Whatever Alfred had been expecting Francis to show him, it certainly was not what Francis placed on the bar.

 "This?"

 Francis nodded. 

 " _This?!"_ Alfred cried, incredulous.  "This is what you wanted -- why you came -- _this_ is what you wanted to put in my safe?!"

 Francis nodded again.

 "It's a sheet of paper!  Another one of your fakes!  God, to _think_ I almost fell for it -- "

 "Look again, my friend.  _That_ is a ticket out.  Out of Casablanca.  To anywhere you want to go.  No questions asked."

 "Bullshit.  Francis, I don't care how good you are, they never _work._ They're not supposed to -- "

 "It's true," Francis said.  "Just look."

 Alfred's mouth twisted in a skeptical smirk, but he scanned the document nevertheless.

 This was not another one of Francis' forgeries.

 This.  Was real.

 Goosebumps rippled up and down his arms.  His scalp prickled. 

 Alfred held it up to the light to be sure.

 "Jesus Christ."

 "I paid a price for that, believe me," Francis said.  "With the guarantee, of course, that its buyer was to pay me three times the amount."

 Alfred let go of a long breath.  "Oh, Francis...."

 "You must, you _must_ promise me, Alfred.  You will get that to its owner.  Promise me.  Please.  The money is yours, only please _please_ promise me!"

 Alfred's mouth fell open, but before he could answer, the sound of someone passing by just outside the door made them both startle.

 "I must go," Francis said.  He ground out the cigarette and started to rise.

 "Don't be an idiot!" Alfred hissed, his head working to catch up with all that was happening.  He had a ticket.  He had a way out....

 Alfred shook his head.  "You're not going anywhere."

 Francis gave a wan smile.  "They know I was here, Alfred.  They'll be back.  Now is not the time to be noble."

 "Then take this!"  Alfred brandished the ticket.  "Take this and get outta here.  Get yourself out of Morocco."

 "Do not think the idea hasn't crossed my mind, as I know it's crossing yours," Francis said, a definite edge to his voice.  "But the truth is, my friend, if this is the last job I ever do -- if I am caught and they -- well...it's not ideal, but who knows, maybe it can help atone for the things I've done."

 Another pair of feet shuffled by the window.  Alfred and Francis tensed, listening hard.  A muffled and slurred singing followed.

 Francis went to the window and peered around the curtain.

 "I cannot stay."

 "But _why?"_  Alfred pressed, his voice cracking on the last word.  "You're not thinking this through -- "

 "I have, Alfred.  Believe me."

 "But if they were following you -- if they knew you had this -- they'll search _me,_ Francis!  They'll search the cafe!  They'll find that safe and -- "

 "Contingencies, my friend," Francis said with a knowing smirk.  He opened his jacket, revealing an inner pocket.  The tip of an envelope stuck out of the top.  Travel documents.  Forged by Francis' own hand.

 Alfred felt his stomach sink.  The pieces began to connect.  "Francis," he croaked, "please tell me you're not...."

 The Frenchman's face was set, determined.  He turned again to the window.  Not a soul was in sight -- not even the drunk singer.

 "No!" Alfred rushed to the door, blocking it.  "I can't let you -- I _won't_ let you use yourself as bait!"

 "The rats are still in the maze.  If I leave now, there's less chance of an encounter."

 "Why is this so goddamn important!?"

 "Because I am nothing compared to the owner of that ticket.  It is _he_ who must get out of Casablanca.  Not me.  Not you.  Whatever it takes.  This place is a purgatory -- one that _we_ helped create -- but it's not too late to open your eyes and choose a side."

 Francis clasped Alfred by the shoulders, pressing his forehead against Alfred's.  "Goodbye, my friend.  God willing, our paths will not cross again for quite some time."  He kissed Alfred's cheek and slipped out into the night.

 Alfred watched as the door closed, stricken, none too sure of what he was seeing.  This was a dream.  This _had_ to be a dream....

 But the paper clutched in his hand was very real.

 Alfred looked at it, held it up to the light one last time.  It was legit.  Not one of Francis' forgeries.

 He had a ticket out....

 The sound of a scuffle outside broke through his thought.  Boot heels. Running, by the sound of it.

 "Francis," Alfred breathed.  Had they seen him? 

 He looked at the door.  It was too late for a warning.  The boots were closing in fast. 

 A shout.  Something in German.  Alfred couldn't make out what.  The boots were right outside his window.

 He shoved the document in an inner pocket and dashed up the stairs, making sure to hit the lights once he reached the top. 

 He skidded to a halt in front of his office window.  The light from the street lamps on the boulevard below cut through the half closed slats of his blinds, casting harsh shadows over the room.  For one wild moment, Alfred didn't hear anything except his own heart pounding between his ears.  He took a deep, steadying breath and went to the window, pushing a slat down with a finger for a better look at the street below.

 He felt his heart stop. 

 There was Francis, hardly even a block away, standing in a ring of light cast by one of the street lamps.  He had his hands up -- either pleading or bargaining, Alfred could not tell.  Two figures stood on the periphery.  Alfred widened the gap to get a better look.  He could hear their voices but still could not make out what they were saying.  One of the figures stepped closer to Francis.  The light gave an eerie cast to his hair and skin -- he looked white as death.  The man spoke in French to Francis and in German to his partner still standing in the shadows.  Alfred saw Francis' hands start to lower, heard him break into an uneasy laugh.  The man laughed, too -- loud and obnoxious, like the call of a herring gull.  He nodded at Francis.  Francis did the same but seemed to hesitate.  Then he slowly turned and began walking down the street.

 That was when the man pulled out his gun.  And shot him.

 Francis' arms splayed out, his head went back, as down, down he fell.  Like some bizarre crucifix. 

 Alfred's mouth opened in a silent scream.  He sank to the floor, breath coming out in spurts.  The walls around him began to tilt and spin as a noise filled the room.  Sharp and shrill, like a kettle boiling over.  It stuffed itself in corners, stacked up to the ceiling and flooded the floor, crept under the doorway and through the window pane, with Alfred as its nucleus.  He clasped a hand to his mouth, unsure if it was in his throat or his head.

 The gunshot had thrown his world out of focus, and he needed to regain it, fast.  Through the swirling haze that had been his office and the sound with no beginning middle or end, a memory broke through.  Something from his days as a Marine.  _Start with what you can feel._ What was tangible?  The hard floor beneath his knees, the squeeze of his hand on his cheeks, his toes in shoes.  Good. 

 He allowed himself to feel those things until the room stopped spinning and the sound became no more than an echo between his ears.  Gradually, he managed to pull himself to his knees, using the window ledge as support. 

 Alfred twitched the blinds aside and peered down the street.  The two men had flipped Francis onto his back and were rummaging through his pockets.  The one with the white hair took something out of Francis' jacket.  The fake travel documents.  He shook his head and signaled to his partner.  He looked down at Francis, shook his head again, then looked up and down the deserted street, eyes lingering for a moment on Alfred's cafe.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, a big THANK YOU to niniel-kirkland for helping me with the French for this fic and to gummyboots for sparking the idea for this on Tumblr.  The crack!ship intensifies!  
>    
> So, as stated in the opening Author’s Note, this fic is based off the movie “Casablanca.”  I have altered some things, but one thing I kept “original”, so to speak, was the no-questions-asked travel document Francis had (known as “letters of transit” in the movie).  I went back and forth about this one a bit for several reasons.  The letters of transit are completely bogus from a historical perspective, but they are almost as iconic as Bogey’s “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”  It would have been more accurate if Francis had exit and entry visas signed, sealed, and not quite delivered, but (long story short) not only were they hard to come by, they also did not guarantee anything.  You could still be turned away or arrested even if you had the right papers.  In “Casablanca”, the letters of transit are about as vague as Rick’s past, but they are still compelling as an idea – to have something that’s the travel equivalent of a blank check – especially given the restrictions in place during this time period. 


	2. Chapter 2

___

 

**II.**

___

 

 

_He was hunkered in the barn behind a feeding bale with the calf nestled beside him.  He had a pail of milk, fresh from its mother, into which he dipped the corner of a rag for the calf to suckle.  It was only a few weeks old and hadn't taken to its mother's teat.  Every day at breakfast, Pa threatened to 'deal with that damn calf' if it didn't get better.  Alfred knew what that meant, and he knew he needed to stop it.  He remembered one of the ladies from town tellin' his Mama how Doc Kirkland got her baby to suck at a rag when it wouldn't take to her breast or bottle.  Alfred wondered if the calf would do the same and decided to give it a try.  He rose before Pa every mornin' and went down to the barn to nurse the calf.  Most times, he could make it back to the house without Pa catchin' him._

  _The calf improved some, in Alfred's care.  It still didn't stand up for long and sometimes its legs were shaky.  Some days were just better than others.  Alfred kept at it._

_The little calf nuzzled and licked at his hand as he dipped the rag in the pail, eager for more milk._

_"Hold on," Alfred laughed.  "You gotta wait."_

_The sky in the east was paling, and Alfred knew he didn't have much time 'fore his Pa would be up and into his chores.  But the little calf was feeding so well -- first time in days._

_The calf pushed its head further into Alfred's hand.  He gave it a pat as he brought the rag to its mouth.  The calf began to suckle the rag, then stopped abruptly.  It stood up on its shaky legs, ears twitching.  In their stalls, the other cows began to low._

_The door to the barn opened.  "Alfred?  You in here?  Better not be messin' with that calf again," the Elder Jones barked._

_Alfred held his breath, hopin' his Pa would just turn back around, but the little calf made a sound, calling out to its mother.  It walked on wobbly legs from out behind the feeding bale.  It barely went five feet before collapsing to its knees.  The Elder Jones swore under his breath and stomped over.  Alfred rose reluctantly from his hiding place._

_"Boy!  You need t' quit foolin' around!"_

_"B-but, Pa.  Didn'tcha see it?  It stood up!  It walked!  I-it's been feedin', Pa.  Look!"  Alfred showed his father the milk pail and rag._

_"That calf is sick, son.  It ain't gonna get better.  You got chores that need doin', but you're wastin' your time on that cow."_

_"But -- "_

_"I don't wanna hear it."  The Elder Jones shifted his weight, and it was then that Alfred saw the strap slung around his shoulder._

_Alfred's eyes widened.  He fell to his knees and threw his arms around the calf's neck.  "You c-can't!  It's gonna get better, you'll s-see!  You -- you can't!"_

_"You only got a few more years 'til you're grown.  It's time you started actin' like it."  The Elder Jones unslung the rifle and held it out.  "You take this.  I'll take the calf."_

_Alfred shook his head, not letting go.  His face felt hot._

_"Don't make me raise my voice, boy, or you'll regret it.  Now you do as you're told.  Get up and take the rifle."_

_A numbness settled over Alfred.  The man was a force the boy never wanted to reckon with.  His Pa slung the calf around his shoulders, holding its legs in case it had a mind to kick, as Alfred took the rifle.  The calf began to wail for its mother, but the Elder Jones cut a quick path through the barn before the sound disturbed any of the other cows.  Alfred followed, head hung low._

_They headed for the property line, at the edge of which stood a shrubland forest fed by a wide, shallow creek._

_The Elder Jones set the calf down.  Alfred held the rifle out for his father, but the Elder Jones just shook his head._

_"This is somethin' you need to do.  Don't leave it out here to suffer."_

_Alfred's felt his breath hitch as his father turned and started back for the house._

_Shadows circled overhead.  Vultures.  Alfred wondered if they smelled the sickness.  The calf already seemed resigned to its fate.  It twitched its ears a moment, then laid its head down in the grass, eyes half-closed._

_Alfred took a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.  He had shot things before -- gophers, jackrabbits, and the like -- but this was different.  The calf wasn't just another pest -- at least not to Alfred.  He would never forgive his Pa for this._

_He shouldered the rifle.  And fired._

___

 

o

 

___

 

Mathieu Williams hadn't even been at his desk ten minutes when his phone rang. It was early. Hardly any of his staff was at the precinct, and he had not yet had his morning coffee. He barely had time to shuffle through last night's reports.

He answered with a lazy “Allô?”

“Good morning, captain,” a voice said in accented French.

Mathieu jumped up as if he’d just been doused in ice water. “Ah, g-good morning, major!”

“I trust I’m not interrupting anything?”

“N-no, no. I just got in, so….”

Mathieu cringed. He could practically hear the sneer from the other end of the phone.

"My dear captain, the day does not begin when the sun is already overhead. Think of how many hours have already been wasted."

Mathieu's grip tightened on the receiver as he grit out an apology.

"Stop wasting your breath," the major snipped. "How has your round up of the 'usual suspects' been going?"

"...Good." He rifled through the reports. There was one that had been relevant. He managed to skim it moments before the major's call. Mathieu's eyes made a quick sweep of it again, deciding which bits to divulge. He hated -- absolutely hated -- working with the Gestapo. But it was a delicate balance. Mutual symbiosis. Like the plover and the crocodile. Give a little bit, get a little bit, and hope to God the croc doesn't close its mouth while you're still cleaning its teeth....

"We brought a woman in last night for questioning," Mathieu said.

"Mm. Well. Keep at it. Though I think the suspect has been taken care of."

"Sir?"

"A man by the name of Francis Bonnefoy was shot last night near the medina. Across from the American cafe, as a matter of fact. But don't worry, Williams. There's no need for a report. It's been handled."

"Ah. I understand. But did he...I mean, were you able to retrieve -- "

"No. All he had on him were fakes. So. Keep up with the investigation. Let me know if anything turns up."

"Yes, of course."

The line went dead. Mathieu hung up the receiver, mind working on overdrive. He grabbed a notepad, jotting down everything the major had said: Bonnefoy medina cafe.

Luckily for Mathieu, the major had only been in Casablanca for about a month. He was fresh blood, not quite accustomed to the city's ins and outs and no reliable source network save the Vichy police.

But Mathieu had both.

The son of a French woman who had married an Englishman in Paris just before the Great War, Williams was the youngest prefect of police Casablanca ever had. Quiet and calculating, he established himself early in his career, arriving in Morocco in 1937 as a young officer and quickly rising through the ranks.

But what began as a promising career soon turned stagnant under the arid sun.

Mathieu had hoped, when the Vichy government was established, he might get to go back home to Paris. Casablanca was never meant to be a permanent posting. At least not to Mathieu. To him, it was no more than a stepping stone, something to bolster his name, and his reputation. He put in a request for a transfer. It was denied. As was the next one, and the next. And Mathieu realized this wasn't a place upon which to build his dreams -- this was a place where dreams came to die. He was stuck. Just like everyone else.

He began to slip.

The city was nothing more than a poor substitute of Paris. Everywhere around him, French architecture crumbled in the dry air. Palm trees swayed where there should have been linden and chestnut. Casablanca was a Moorish gal painted up like a French harlot. And Mathieu hated it even more. He didn't want some dolled up impersonation -- he wanted something real. He wanted what Casablanca had been before. And for him, that left only one place: the medina. Drawn by its otherworldliness, he began wandering the medina's winding streets more and more, eventually becoming the only member of the prefecture to navigate it successfully. He got to know its residents and its businesses -- including the American cafe and its American owner.

He liked Alfred for the simple fact he didn't like him. Mathieu would have loved nothing better than to shut the cafe down for all the gambling and black market sales that went on, but he could not pretend he didn't benefit too. Al's Place was a wealth of information -- especially to a young police prefect with just enough ambition left to know that cracking the right case could earn him a one-way trip back to Paris.

Mathieu tucked his hat under his arm and stuffed the notepad in his pocket as he left his office. He still had not had his coffee, and there was only one place to go for it: Al's.

 

___

 

o

 

___

 

 

Alfred jolted awake, the sound of a gunshot still ringing in his ears.  He had fallen asleep at his desk (again) with no recollection of how he got there.  He peeled his cheek off the wood top, feeling around for his glasses.  His fingers hit something metal that let out a rattle as loud as a rock in a tin can.  Found 'em.  Alfred screwed his eyes shut against the noise and shoved the frames on his nose.  He blinked as the rest of his office swam into some approximation of focus.  

 Mid-morning light pushed its way in through the half closed slats.  Alfred squinted against it.  The room was in disarray.  A half empty bottle of whiskey stood within arm's reach on his desk.  Papers were scattered here and there, gathered in haphazard piles; on top was the document Francis had given him last night. 

  _Francis._

 The room began to spin, and it had nothing to do with his hangover.  He rubbed his brow and slid the paper closer.  Why hadn't he put it in the safe last night?  Had he been thinking about leaving?  That might explain the mess.  Or had he been looking for something else?  He couldn't remember.  Everything after the gunshot had been blacked out, a part of his memory redacted. 

 Alfred tucked the document inside his jacket and began straightening his office up as best he could.  It was slow going, and when he reached the window, he felt compelled to look, though his head screamed not to.  Well.  He had always been stubborn.  He made a gap in the slats and peered through.

 His eyes immediately found the spot.  Nothing more than a thin line.  Hardly a smear.  Easy to miss.  People on the boulevard passed by in ignorance.  The shot had been a clean one.  Efficient. 

 Alfred put a hand over his mouth, afraid he might be sick.  He turned away, eyes catching on the bottle of whiskey.  He snatched it up, but a sharp knock at the front door interrupted his drink. 

 Alfred huffed, grumbling under his breath, and went downstairs.

 Sunlight spilled into the dark cafe as he opened the door.  Alfred squinted out to see a man wearing a blue police uniform and an uncharacteristically cheery smile. 

 " _Bonjour,_ Monsieur Jones!"

 "Jeez, Williams.  You're in a chipper mood."  Alfred leaned against the doorway, scratching his cheek. 

 Mathieu’s smile faltered.  "May I come in?"

 Alfred shrugged, pushing himself off the doorframe.  "Sure.  To what do I owe the displeasure?"

 "What do you mean?  My visit is friendly, I assure you…I just had a few questions," Mathieu said, following the American inside.

 "Is that somethin' they teach all cops to say?" Alfred snorted, sinking into a chair.

 "It usually precipitates the purpose of our visit, so...." Mathieu trailed off, looking along the wall for the light switch.  "Ah!  There we are."

 Alfred winced, shielding his eyes from the flood of light.

 "You look terrible," Mathieu observed.

 "Thanks.  Apparently I had a rough night."

 "'Apparently?'"  Mathieu's brow arched.  "That would imply you don't remember much of it."

 "That's about halfway true."

 "Not even the commotion just outside your door?"

 "Apparently," Alfred smirked.

 "I see," Mathieu said.  He went behind the bar and started rummaging through the cabinets.

 "Help yourself.  Don't you need a warrant or somethin'?" 

 "Only those with a guilty conscience would think I'm searching for something incriminating."

 "Everyone’s got a guilty conscience, and those that don’t are lyin’.  ‘Sides, your boys gave this place the once-over a coupla times.  If I had anything to hide, they woulda found it."

 "You give them too much credit."

 "Maybe.  Though I'm surprised you were never here for any of 'em.  Why is that?"

 "Because, Monsieur Jones, if _I_ were to search your place, I would most likely have to shut you down.  And that might put a damper on our relationship."

 "Yeah.  It might.  So what're you tearin' up my bar for?"

 "I thought I'd make us a cup of coffee.  Maybe help stimulate your memory a bit."

 "Oh.  Check below."

 "Ah.  Thank you!" Mathieu smiled, then turned his back and frowned at the Percolater and little electric stove on the counter.  He plugged in the stove and took out a can of coffee from the cabinet underneath.  He would love a cappuccino, but seeing as how it was only the two of them, there was no point firing up the brass behemoth.  Besides, he knew Alfred preferred Perc coffee anyway.  He had been treated to its oily taste the first time he ever called on Monsieur Jones while investigating allegations of a smuggling ring down by the docks, and what better place to start than by checking all the businesses close to the waterfront.  It wasn't long before a mutual tolerance sprang up between the two of them.  Mathieu tolerated Alfred's sub-par coffee, and Alfred tolerated Mathieu's presence, so long as the police prefect never was there to make an arrest.

 Soon the coffee was brewed and Mathieu was settling at the table, opposite from Alfred, setting two cups between them.

 "So, if you don't mind my asking, Monsieur Jones, what brought on the rough night?"

 "Hm, what?"  Alfred started, seeming to snap out of a doze.

 "I was just asking," Mathieu began, pouring a sizable helping of sugar in his cup, "why did you have a rough night?  Monsieur Jones?"

 "Oh!  Oh...that.  Well," Alfred rubbed a hand over his face.  "That was...." _You c-can't, Pa!_ A gunshot echo.  "That was a bad dream.  I get 'em from time to time, y'know."

 "Ah.  Yes, of course.  I had forgotten.  A man of your service -- "

 "Yeah, don't.  You don't need to -- and you can stop with all the formal crap, too."

 "Pardon?"

 "You know -- callin' me 'Monsieur.'  Like you don't know me."

 "Alfred, just because we're -- "

 "See!  There ya go." Alfred grinned.

 "Goddammit," Mathieu huffed, mouth twisting into the frowning expression Alfred was familiar with.  "Fine.  Alfred.  I'm trying to keep this professional.  I _am_ here on official business."

 “Thought you said this was friendly.”  Alfred sipped his coffee and grimaced.  "This tastes like ink."

 Mathieu adjusted his glasses.  "This _is_ friendly.  I made you coffee.  I'm only sorry I'm not as capable of coaxing something drinkable from that infernal contraption as you.  Now.  As I said before: I have a few questions I need to ask you."

 Alfred gave a dismissive wave.  "Fire away, chief."

 Mathieu sighed, adjusted his glasses again, and took out a small notepad.  "Have you ever been in contact with a man by the name of Francis Bonnefoy?" 

 Alfred snorted.  "C'mon, Mat.  What kind of a question is that?"

 "A serious one.  Now answer it."

 Alfred studied the police prefect a moment.  "Well, I knew _a_ Francis.  Not sure if he was a 'Bonnefoy,' though -- we were only on a first name basis," he said with a lewd grin.

 "Alfred -- "

 "Mat!"  Alfred smacked his hand on the table.  "You know I know Francis.  The whole goddamn medina knows Francis.  Now -- why're you askin'?"

 Mathieu's jaw clenched.  "Because.  He was shot last night, hardly a block from your cafe."

 Alfred kept his face inscrutable, though the memory of last night pushed against his mental dams.

 "You may not be aware of this, Monsieur Jones, but a week ago, a German courier was found murdered in the medina."

 "The hell do I care about a dead courier?"

 "Maybe you would, if you knew what he was carrying."

 "Lemme guess: the Mona Lisa, right?"

 The corners of Mathieu's mouth twitched.  "A travel document, Monsieur.  And not just your standard exit visa, either.  No, no.  This was signed by General Weygand himself.  A very valuable item to anyone wishing to leave -- or to anyone wishing to make a profit."

 "I should think so.  But what's this got to do with Francis?"

 "Because we believe Francis was the one who murdered the courier and stole that document," Mathieu stated matter-of-factly.

 "...Francis?" Alfred's brow dipped dubiously.

 Mathieu nodded.

 "You think -- Francis -- murdered...?  Hoo, boy!  You really don't know who you're after then, do you?  Just pin it on the dead guy -- "

 "Do not think me an idiot, Monsieur Jones -- "

 "How many times I gotta tell ya, it's 'Alfred' -- "

 "Fine.  _Alfred."_ Mathieu drank his coffee, watching the American over the rim.  "I knew the scams he ran.  I knew the number of exit visas sold from this very cafe -- "

 "Oh, yeah?  Then why not shut me down?"

 "Because I know _you've_ never sold one."

 Alfred smirked.  "Ah, I don't think that's the reason.  You and I both know you like the roulette wheel too much."

 Mathieu chose to ignore that.  "Alfred, please.  Whatever vague loyalties you may have had, don't pretend they are real now.  Francis' sole interest was money.  Plain and simple."

 "Yeah.  Fine."  Alfred fiddled with his coffee cup, turning it around and around on the table.  "So if you know Francis did it, then why'd you come here in the first place?  Hopin' I saw who shot him?"

 "The document he stole is still missing.  I need to know, Monsieur J -- Alfred -- when you last saw Francis?"

 Alfred sank back in his chair, sipping his coffee.  "Well...I dunno.  Let's see...must have been about a week or two ago?  Maybe longer?"

 "So...you're not sure then?  Maybe I ought to make it clear that anyone who had any form of contact with Monsieur Bonnefoy over the past few days could be seen as a collaborator."

 "Look, he stopped bein' a regular some time ago.  I'd see him at least once every week -- if not two.  Yeah...yeah.  Make it two."

 Mathieu made a note.  Alfred tapped his fingers against the side of his cup.

 "...So, about the person who...who killed Francis.  You gonna ask me anything about that, or...?"

 "Ah, no.  We have a few leads," Mathieu casually remarked.  "Unless...you remember anything?"

 Alfred shook his head.  "…Nah, it was a -- "

 "Rough night.  I understand.  Well, Monsieur Jones, since you had no recent contact with Monsieur Bonnefoy, there is really nothing else I can ask you."  Mathieu rose, as did Alfred.  "I'm sorry for having disturbed you, but...protocol must be followed."

 "Right.  Yeah.  I understand."

 "I'm sure you do.  Good day, Monsieur."  The corner of Mathieu's mouth twitched again, rendering his expression a little too self-satisfied for Alfred's liking.

 Alfred saw him to the door and watched from the window until the police prefect was no more than a speck among the crowds thronging the boulevard, then dashed upstairs.

 There were a total of three safes at Al's Place.  One under the bar, for the cafe; one in the back room, for gambling winnings; and one in the office closet, for Alfred's personal use.  The one in the office was not particularly well hidden, nor was it meant to be, but it did have one feature that came in handy on those (rare) occasions his cafe was searched: a false back. 

 It took Alfred several tries to get the combination right -- nerves were gettin' the better of him -- until finally the lock clicked and the door swung open.  He pushed against the secret compartment, feeling it pop open against his hand.  Alfred only ever had to open that safe three times for the police -- and luckily none of those times involved Mathieu....

  _Mathieu._ That guy was as slippery as an eel.  And smart.  Too fuckin' smart.

 Alfred sat back on his heels and took the document out of his pocket, looking at it.  He couldn't put it in the safe.  Mathieu was sure to be back -- and he would find the false back in an instant.  No.  Better to keep the thing on him and hope Francis' contact would show up soon.

 Alfred sighed, tucking the paper back inside his jacket.  He went to his desk and sank into the chair, staring at the clutter.  Seems he hadn't made much headway since his effort to clean that mornin'. 

 Alfred pulled a pile over and began to idly sort through it. 

 The edge of a newspaper stuck out from the stack.  Alfred brushed away the papers on top, and as he did, an article caught his eye.  A quick write up -- nothing more -- mentioning the murder of a German courier.

  _Oh, Francis.  You certainly did pay a price for this one, didn't you?_

 Alfred's eyes stung; the document in his pocket was an iron weight against his chest.  He shoved the newspaper away, sending another stack scattering to the floor.

 Alfred grumbled, bending to pick up the fallen paper, when something made his hand still. 

 It was a small sheet, less than half the size of the others that had been on his desk, but Alfred recognized it in an instant.  It was a letter from his mother.  He picked it up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling as if the slightest breath could carry it away.  Then again, everything about her always seemed so delicate.  He used to wonder why she ever married his Pa….

 He lit a cigarette and began to read:

 

  _April 10, 1941_

_My Dearest Son,_

_Well!  It certainly has been a year already though it feels like it’s hardly started.  Sometimes I catch myself smiling, laughing at all that's happened.  I know it's not a proper way to act -- Doc Kirkland offered to prescribe me something for it after the funeral, but I said no thank you.  I'm just giddy I suppose.  It feels like the world went and opened up and I can see everything so plain for the first time.  I decided to sell the farm.  I don't much feel like taking on anybody to help me with it and I don't much feel like being bothered with it anymore, truth be told.  I thought about just up and leaving the other day and let the bank take care of the rest.  But I couldn't do that to the animals.  That was just me being spiteful.  And I could just about hear your Pa yelling at me from Heaven for even thinking such a thing.  Though I shot that bull myself, after what he did to your Pa.  His meat fetched a decent price at market, too.  I think I'll auction off the cows, and the chickens I'll sell at the next swap.  I was thinking about using the money to go east.  I've never seen the ocean and I sure would like to!  Doc Kirkland's boy up and moved to Savannah with his wife.  Can you imagine?  That's halfway across the country.  Of course, who am I to talk?  I'm already dreaming of where I'll go -- east, the ocean -- I'd like to see Savannah too.  This all probably seems like a drop in the pond to you, but remember your Mama's never been out of Ozona, but I always pictured what it'd be like.  Guess you got that travel bug from me.  I know things won't be settled here for a while, and I sure would like to see you before all's said and done.  I'd like to cook us one last meal, as a proper goodbye to the old farm.  And maybe you can make your peace with your Pa.  I know you and he never saw eye to eye, and the spiteful part of me can't help but think he's what drove you off.  I know that's not true, not all of it.  I know it's asking a lot.  I know you can't just hop on a boat and sail over.  But it's something I wish you would consider._

_All my love,_

_Mama_

_P.S. I had a letter from your old commander the other day, wondering if you'd be interested in re-enlisting.  I hope you don't mind, but I wrote back, politely declining on your behalf and told him you were already out of the country!_

Alfred put out his cigarette and folded up the letter.  He went back to the safe, opened it, and pressed against the false back.  It sprang forward, revealing the secret compartment, home to the parts of his life he could not sell -- his dog tags and service medals, the horseshoe that boy had given him for luck just before he left for basic training.  He only ever joined up ‘cause of his Pa.  Thought it’d make a man out of him – though it ain’t like his Pa ever served.  The whole thing still left a sour taste in Alfred’s mouth.

A United States Marine veteran, he passed the first three of seven years in Nicaragua hunting down Sandinistas. The remaining four were spent in a bitter haze of growing disillusion, not really sure who he was hating more: the Nicaraguans, the doe-eyed privates fresh off the troop transport, his own government, or himself. He thought he might have some relief when his unit was transferred to Haiti in '33. He was wrong. He spent his off days drinking away the images of Millionaire’s Row stamped against the abject poverty that surrounded it. He learned French from the locals in cafes and just enough German to be passable. He never held much love for the language or its people, having learned to hate the Hun in his formative years. And his time in Haiti did not serve to improve his opinion, as word leaked through the ranks that it was the Germans who were helping the rebels he was sent to suppress. Therefore, _ipso facto_ , it was the Germans’ fault he was on that island in the first place.

 He returned home to a mother who was thankful he didn’t die and a father who wished he had. Always somethin’ not right with that boy, his father knew, but just not how much.

 He tried to return to his old life, but having learned the things he had and having seen the things he saw, he just couldn’t. He had been bitten by an exotic bug. Its toxin coursed through his blood, pumped from heart to brain, until he could think of nothing else but the foreign faces he’d seen, the languages they’d spoken, places they’d lived. Suddenly, the world he had previously occupied, his parents’ farm on the outskirts of that West Texas town, could no longer contain him. He was bigger, larger, growing. Some days he swore he’d grown so big, he was surprised he didn’t take up the whole house, like that Alice from Wonderland.

 Somethin’ not right.

 His mother always ignored the grass stains on the knees of his pants. Come from work, she’d say, even when Alfred wasn’t workin’. Even when Alfred was out joy ridin’ with that boy from town. Only family in town what owns a car. Natural fer a boy t’ be curious.

 That boy from town was the first one Alfred went lookin’ for when he got back. Because someone, someone in that godforsaken dust speck _had_ to understand. And if anyone could, _he_ most certainly would.

 Again, he was wrong.

 It was a feeling he didn’t like. And one he couldn’t much get used to, 'specially after seeing what he’d seen.

 He went down to the creek that night, took a stone from the water, and scrubbed his skin 'til it hurt. He had to get the toxin out. But the poison only sunk in deeper.

 He thought he would go mad, trying to Be what he was Before, until his mother said to him one day after breakfast: “Go, Alfred. If you don’t go now, you’ll regret it.”

 And so he did.  Took what money he had and used it to buy passage on a cargo ship bound for the coast of east Africa.  Wasn't long after, outta money and outta luck in Massawa, that he met Francis.

 Alfred placed the letter in the safe and took out the horseshoe.  It still had a little bit of Ozona dirt stuck in its chinks.  Just like him, he supposed.  Its edges were smooth, run over countless times by fingers in made-up rituals asking for luck, lips pressed in anxious prayer while leaves and bullets whizzed by.

 But, no matter how many times he asked it now, there was no changin' what happened. 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Alfred served during the so-called Banana Wars, which were a series of occupations and interventions on the part of the United States in Central America and the Caribbean following the end of the Spanish-American War in 1898 and the inception of FDR’s Good Neighbor Policy in 1934. “Sandinista” refers to the followers of Augusto Cesar Sandino, who led a rebellion against the United States military occupation of Nicaragua.
> 
>  The major's line about "the usual suspects" and Mathieu's line "I know you've never sold one" regarding the under-the-counter exit visas sold in Al's Place are a tribute to, and borrowed from, the original movie.
> 
> Next up: Roderich makes his first appearance.


	3. Chapter 3

___

 

**III.**

**___**

Alfred's fingers dug into his temples.  It was Friday night and his Place was hoppin'.  Started fillin' up just after the sound of the horn signaled the end of first shift at the docks.  Workers — grease monkeys — started pouring in.  They were easy enough to serve.  Just beer, and keep the bottles comin’, Barkeep.  Save the fancier drinks for the genteel crowd.  For the ladies in fine dresses and gentleman in suits that took up seats where oil stained coveralls earlier sat.  Seemed like that week's slow, dry spell had ended.  Someone went and finally turned on the water.  Al couldn't complain — _shouldn't_ complain — but he did anyway.  'Sides, like his Pa used to say, it was his own damn fault.  

Normally on nights like these, he'd be in his element, working the floor, making sure his guests were well-fed and their glasses full.  But tonight he couldn't be bothered to give a damn about any of it.  He had been nursing a raging headache for three days, and it didn't show any signs of stopping.  _Seems like you haven't given two shits about much lately, son._ Alfred grit his teeth against the voice in the back of his head.  His father's voice.  Not like he needed to hear from the old man, too, on top of everything else. 

He turned his thoughts outward, to the cafe, but found that just as grating.  The lights were too bright and the man at the piano couldn't play _Ain't Misbehavin'_ to save his life.  It wasn't his usual guy.  He was playin' some other joint tonight.  Alfred only remembered that Thursday afternoon.  Hardly enough time to find a decent replacement.  

Pain seared across his forehead.  Alfred sank onto a stool behind the bar, clenching his jaw against it.  His Pa always had been right — it was his own damn fault.

It had been three days since Francis was shot. 

Three days since his friend had sacrificed himself for a slip of paper for an unnamed contact and ideals Alfred had long since buried. 

And he was on the down slope of a three day bender.

He was sure he had never felt like this.  Not in Nicaragua.  Not in Haiti.  This was something different.  Something he couldn't name or numb away, for even in his whiskey-filled sleep, he still saw Francis fall. 

The paper in his breast pocket burned, an iron brand against his chest.

He picked a bad night to stop hittin' the bottle so hard.  He lit a cigarette, hoping to Christ Francis' contact would hurry and show the fuck up soon.

A yowl at his feet made him jump and curse.  Damn cat.  Still demanded to be heard.  Even with all the noise. 

It stretched and sniffed the air, whiskers twitching as it looked up at Alfred, a question in its lamp yellow eyes. 

"He ain't here."

The cat meowed again, wrapping itself around Alfred's leg. 

Alfred pushed it away with the toe of his shoe.  "Get lost."

Undeterred, the cat jumped up on the bar top, butting its head against Alfred's hand.

"What do I gotta tell you before you get it, huh?  He ain't _here!_ "  Alfred's voice cracked on the last word.  He scooped the cat up, ready to toss it out, when he saw a woman making a beeline straight for his bar.  She took a seat, glaring up at him from under long-lashed eyes.  Her hair hung in loose waves, falling about her round, youthful cheeks.  She looked barely of age to be in a place like this – not that it really mattered in the medina, but Alfred liked to imagine he had some scruples left and flat out refused to allow minors on his premises.

Alfred straightened himself up, ready to tell her to scram, when she spoke with a voice too sullen and deep to be that of a child’s.

"I want a drink," she said, her English heavily accented. 

Alfred set the cat back on the bar and spread his hands in silent gesture: _What do you want?_

The woman (Alfred tried not to think "girl") sighed and rolled her eyes.  Alfred got the feeling he knew her, though he couldn't think how.

"Bourbon.  On the rocks," the woman said.  Her eyes fell on the cat.  She regarded it for a moment with as much distaste as Alfred usually showed it, but then her mouth did something funny.  Her lips pressed tight and pinched at the corners, as if she was trying not to cry.  She gathered the cat into her arms and cooed to it in French. 

Then it struck Alfred.  "You’re one of Francis' girls.  You were with him a few nights ago."

The woman sent him a scathing glare.  "I was not one of his ‘girls.’  You make me sound like nothing more than a prostitute, Monsieur Jones.  That was never the case.  He _cared_ for me.  He looked after me." 

“My apologies,” Alfred grit out.  Another wave of pain seared through his forehead.  “You’re A-Angie, right?”

"Angelique," she corrected, drawing herself up with an imperious toss of her hair over her shoulder.  A dark spot marred her cheek.

"Jesus," Alfred breathed, stretching a hand out. 

Angelique drew back, combing her hair back around her face.

"Who did that?" Alfred asked.

"Who do you think?" she said with a haughty sniff.

Alfred took a final drag from his cigarette then fixed her drink.  Angelique nuzzled against the cat.  It purred, licking the tip of her nose, making her giggle.

"Francis ain’t here," Alfred said flatly.  A sudden and irrational anger came over him.  There she sat, petting _his_ cat, while his friend had died for something, with only a bruise on her cheek to show for it.

Angelique glared up at him.  "I know."

Alfred wondered just how much she knew. 

"He's dead."

"I _know,"_ Angelique hissed.  "When they — when I was — "  She combed her fingers through her hair.  "I heard about it, okay?"  The cat jumped out of her lap, perching itself on an adjacent stool.  "But he said to come here," Angelique continued.  "He...he said everything would be okay."  She glanced up at Alfred, her eyes wide this time.

Alfred spread his hands again.  "I don't know what to tell ya, kid."

"Did he...come back here?  Did he s-say anything more?"

Alfred glanced away.  The paper pressed against his chest.

Angelique petted the cat, her eyes distant.  "What am I going to do now?"

"You're Resistance aren't you?"

Angelique's gaze hardened.  "Was.  They tend to not look favorably on members who don't give their lives for the cause."  Angelique sipped her bourbon.  "Francis was a crook anyway.  They never took him seriously.  Or me, for that matter." 

"What about friends, family?"

Angelique's brow became somber.  She shook her head.

Al sighed.  _Another one of Francis' orphans_ , he thought, remembering the kids that would trail after them in Massawa, plucking bread from Francis' hands like sparrows.

Angelique chewed her lip.  The cat lay curled in her arms, its contented purr audible even over the club's din. 

The piano struck a sour note and Al ground his teeth.  "Can you sing?"

The look on Angelique's face was again one of mistrust, but Alfred's head hurt too much for him to care — and his exasperation with the piano player had worn beyond thin.

"Can I what?"

"Can you sing?" Al repeated, rubbing his temples.

Angelique studied him a moment, derision pulling her lips into a frown moments before she began singing: “ _Allons, enfants de la Patrie.  Le jour de gloire est_ — “

"Shh! What are you doing!?" Alfred cried, jumping off his barstool.

"You wanted me to sing."

"Jesus.  I meant a jazz number.  Not — not _that_."  Alfred's eyes swept his club but there were no uniforms — German or Vichy – at any of the tables.  He raked a hand through his hair and sat back on the stool as the pianist plodded through _Take the ‘A’ Train_.  "Do me a favor, kid, and see if you can make that piano sound any better."

Angelique started to protest but Alfred waved her off.  "I know you know the songs.  Francis made sure of that, didn't he?"

Angelique pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded.

Alfred lit a cigarette.  "Yeah.  The man may have been a crook, but he always looked after you kids.  And made sure you could look after yourselves."

"...I liked to listen to his record player."  Angelique's face softened.  "He found me singing on the streets a few years ago and brought me home.  Taught me how to sing the American songs....”

"Go on, then.  Get out there," Alfred said, nodding at the piano.

Angelique stood.  The cat hopped out of her arms and sat on the bar, tail curling around itself.  It sniffed the air, yellow eyes scanning the crowd.  With a furtive glance, Angelique gave it one last scratch behind the ears and went over to the piano.  The pianist gave her a questioning look, but Angelique just nodded, her eyes fixed on Alfred.  She began to sing, her voice growing in volume until she overtook the piano.  Alfred let out a relieved breath.  The kid was no Ella Fitzgerald, but she wasn’t half bad either.

Alfred finished his cigarette and decided it was time to mix and mingle.  The conversation with Angelique sobered him up enough, and the change in music lifted his mood, if only slightly.    The pain in his head evened to a dull ache.  Alfred reached for his aspirin bottle under the bar.  Had been poppin’ ‘em like candy all night long, probably well past the recommended dosage.  He shrugged the thought away and shook out two white pills, crushing them between his teeth, shuddering as their bitter taste flooded his tongue.  Alfred checked his reflection in the bar’s mirror and straightened the lapels of his jacket, noticing, as he did so, a man enter — one Alfred had never before seen.  It was nothing unusual.  Probably some refugee, fresh off the boat.  The man paused by the entrance, glancing around the club, before heading to the bar.  Alfred watched him in the mirror's reflection.  There was something different about this one, no doubt about it.  A vague air hung about him.  He had a lost and haunted look, like his eyes were too big for their sockets.  Alfred knew immediately he didn’t belong in his Place or Casablanca.  He adjusted his jacket, smoothing a hand over the pocket that held the travel document, and turned to face the stranger.

“Can I help you, chief?” Alfred asked, not caring enough to switch to French.

The man blinked once at Alfred, then turned his eyes down.  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft.  “I’m looking for someone.”

Alfred folded his arms and glowered.  There was no mistaking his accent.  “You’re German.”

The man started.  He gave Alfred another quick look and let his gaze fall again.  “Austrian.”

Alfred shrugged his shoulders.  “All the same to me.  As a word of advice: you might want to look for your friend somewhere else.”

“I can’t do that.  He said he’d be here.”

“Well, I can’t help you, pal, so — “

“Are you Mr. Jones?  He told me to ask for Mr. Jones, if he wasn’t here.”

The back of Alfred’s neck prickled.  It wasn’t unusual to have strangers, people he’d never met before, ask for him.  His name was well known on the docks and in the medina.  No.  It wasn’t the fact the man knew his name that raised his suspicion.  It was what he’d said after.  The only “he” this man could be referring to, was Francis.

Alfred frowned as the realization hit — _this_ was the contact.  This small, skinny man.  This _Austrian_.  Was somehow worthy of leaving Casablanca.  Was somehow worthy of Francis’ life….

Alfred’s eyes narrowed.  The way Francis talked, of how noble and _great_ this man was, he had been expecting someone more…impressive. 

Alfred refused to believe it.

“Look at me,” he commanded. 

The man brought his gaze up again, irises dancing back and forth, wanting to look anywhere else but _at_ another being.  Shifty, Alfred thought.  He’d seen the type.  They frequented a place like his.  Casablanca was full of secrets, perched as it was, torn between its pre-colonial past and current occupation.  This man was just another one.  Either a low-level gangster or Gestapo, a possible refugee hired by the Vichy police.  Alfred would not put it past Mathieu to do such a thing, given his interest in procuring those travel documents and unconcern over Francis’ death.  Though it did seem a bit too soon for him, Alfred thought.  Mathieu usually liked to wait longer before springing his trap…. 

Then there was the other possibility — the one that first struck Alfred.  That this really was Francis’ contact.  Out of all of them, though, this one was beginning to seem the least likely.  Why would Francis give his life helping an Austrian, when they were just as responsible as Germany for fucking the world over?  Alfred needed to make sure.

“Look me in the eyes and say his name.”

The man tried to hold his gaze still.  It seemed to be costing him a great deal of effort.

“You can’t do it, can you?” Alfred sneered.  “Stop wastin’ my time and get out —“

“Francis,” the man said, letting his eyes fall to the bar.  “His name’s Francis.  Forgive me, Mr. Jones.  Where I’ve been…eye contact was not encouraged.”

“And where was that exactly?” Alfred asked.  But before the man had a chance to answer, he was interrupted by none other than the prefect of police bumping into the bar, his arms laden with gaming chips.

The chips spilled from Mathieu’s hold, covering the bar top in red and black and green.  Mathieu gave a lopsided grin as he tried — and failed — the take a seat.  The barstool fell back and the police captain fell to the side, knocking into the Austrian.

“Oh!  I’m so sorry!” Mathieu slurred.  “Here.  For your trouble.”  He clapped a hand on the Austrian’s shoulder and slid over a black chip. 

“That’s quite alright,” the Austrian said, though the look he gave Mathieu was one of utter disdain.  He helped the captain right the barstool.  Mathieu happily sat down, smiling drunkenly up at Alfred.

“You tryin’ to clean me out, Williams?” Alfred remarked.

“Not today.”

“You know you’re supposed to cash that in the _back_ room, right?”

Mathieu blinked, as if this was news to him.  He looked around for a confused moment.

“C’mon,” Alfred sighed.  “I’ll walk you back.  Or else you’ll have to arrest yourself if you catch yourself up here.”

“How true,” Mathieu mused with all the seriousness a drunk could muster.

Alfred swept the gaming chips into a bag.  He gave his cat a scratch under the chin.  _Watch him,_ he silently commanded it, flicking his eyes to the Austrian.  The cat licked its nose and sniffed the air.  Alfred led the police captain back to the gambling hall.

When he returned, he was somewhat shocked to see the cat curled on the Austrian’s lap, purring contentedly.  _Traitor_ , Alfred thought.  He began rearranging glasses behind the bar, not wanting to let the Austrian out of his sight, when the door swung open.

The cat’s ears pricked up.  It leapt from the Austrian’s lap to the bar top, as if to get a better look at the new entrants.  The cat crouched, tail swishing, a guttural growl coming from its throat.  It jumped down from the bar, body slunk low as it made for the door. 

This behavior did not go unnoticed by Alfred.  Or the Austrian.

“You have a rather interesting pet, Mr. Jones.  What’s its name?”

“Doesn’t have one,” Alfred said, eyeing the cat.  “It was Francis’.”

It sat right down in front of the door, puffing its scrawny chest out with a measure of authority.  The first of the four men who entered looked down at the cat and sneered.  He brushed it aside with the toe of his boot.  The cat swatted a paw then darted back to the bar.  Alfred greeted it with a scratch behind the ear, but it remained perched and alert, watching the newcomers.

The men lingered by the door a moment, eyeing the tables.  The first one leaned in and said something to his friends and cut a path to a seat in the middle of the cafe.  The lights reflected off his hair and skin made him look pale as Death.  The Gestapo uniform he wore did not help either.

Alfred felt his stomach sink as pieces from the past three days flooded back.  Francis.  The streetlight.  A single gunshot.  Clean.  Efficient.  Two figures, one with hair and skin as white as….

“Sonuva bitch,” Alfred murmured.

The Austrian turned slowly back around, his face a shade paler.  “And you certainly have some interesting clientele.  Maybe I have made a mistake.”  He looked up, eyes locking with Alfred’s, no longer anxious.  Something hardened behind the pupil.  Alfred had seen that look, had felt it cross his own face all too often.  But seeing it on this Austrian sent a chill down his spine.

“I can’t pick and choose who I let in here.  ‘Specially when it comes to _them._ ”  Alfred nodded at the four officers.  As he did, he caught sight of Angelique.  Her hands were clasped tight at her sides, nervous lines etched across her brow.

The Austrian smirked.  “For someone who does not seem to hold any regard for Germans, you show a certain amount of deference.”

“It’s not deference.  I have a _business_ to run.  Money changes all types of hands.”

“Or perhaps it’s a convenient excuse to remain in ignorance.”

“Listen, pal, I haven’t got time to listen to lectures about my morals.  Like I said: I have a business to run. Are you drinkin’ or not?”

“No.  I’m waiting for Francis.”

“You’re in for an awful long wait, then.  Too bad.  Some whiskey might just make you tolerable.”  Alfred poured himself a quick drink, knocked it back, and went to mingle, leaving the Austrian to sit alone at the bar, hoping maybe he’d give up and leave.  The paper in his pocket weighed against his chest.  Alfred adjusted his jacket, ignoring it, as he passed the table where the German officers sat, his lungs momentarily forgetting how to breathe.  He felt eyes on his back but resisted the urge to turn.  ‘Sides, the look Angelique gave him as he approached confirmed it. 

“You can take your break when this song’s over if you want,” Alfred said to the pianist.  He looked at Angelique.  She nodded to say she’d heard.

Alfred swept through the dining hall, greeting some of his more regular customers here and there before heading for a nondescript door to the right of the kitchen.  A thin barrier between the dining hall and gambling room.

To anyone not in the know, it looked like it might open to nothing more than a storage closet, half hidden as it was by spare tables and chairs, which was exactly how Al wanted it to look.  The Vichy police knew about it, of course, and allowed Al to run it so long as none of the games got out of hand — and so long as they got the house advantage from time to time.  But now that the Germans were in town, Alfred wondered how long he could keep up his back room operation. 

A glance over his shoulder told him the Germans were no longer watching him.  He slipped through.  The music from the piano died the instant the door shut. 

The clack of a roulette wheel startled him, sounding too loud in his ears.  Alfred smoothed his jacket down and went to check out the tables.  The prefect of police was sitting alone at a closed roulette table, a distant look to his eyes.

Alfred lit a cigarette and went over.

“Wheel isn’t going to spin itself, Williams.  No matter how hard you stare at it.”

Mathieu’s head spun around at the sound of Alfred’s voice. 

“I’m not in the mood to play,” he said, turning back to the table.

“How ‘bout a drink, then?”

Mathieu shook his head.  “I think I’ve had enough.”

“Need me to phone you a cab?”

“No, thank you.  A walk might help clear my head.”

Alfred took a seat beside him, noticing as he did so something gold held between the police prefect’s thumb and forefinger.  It looked like a signet ring.

“What you got there?”

“Nothing,” Mathieu said, closing his hand around the ring.  But Alfred had seen.

“Cross of Lorraine.  Ah.  And here you had me thinkin’ you were an opportunist.”

Mathieu sighed.  “You mustn’t read too deeply into things, Monsieur Jones.  The ring is an heirloom.  Nothing more.”  He held the ring up and tapped the signet with his finger.  It swiveled up, revealing a set of initials on the face behind the cross.  Mathieu flipped the signet so the initials were now facing out and slid the ring on his finger.

“Even so.  A rather dangerous trinket to be wearin’.  ‘Specially for someone like you.”

Mathieu shrugged.  “It’s a memory.  Whatever my country has become…is not what it’s meant to be.”  He looked at Alfred, eyes lit with a spark the American had never before seen.

Alfred took a drag from his cigarette and looked away.  “Never pegged you as the sentimental type, Williams.”

The spark blew out of Mathieu’s eyes.  The familiar, cold glare returned.  “I hope you never know the feeling, Monsieur Jones.  Of having your country ripped away.” 

“I doubt I have one anymore.”

Mathieu puffed out an acerbic laugh.  “How fortunate it must be, to be you.  No attachments.  No concern.  Everything equal and held at an arm’s length, except for the one thing you treasure above all: your _self_.”

Alfred smirked.  “You must despise me, then.”

“Only when I think about it.  You know sometimes, when I have nothing else better to do, I wonder why you haven’t returned to America.  What could you have done to make you call this place your home?

Alfred ground out his cigarette and stood.  “That’s a conversation for another night, Monsieur le Préfet. One when you’re not such a mean drunk.”

Mathieu angled his head up, eyes catching on Alfred’s jacket.  He blinked, as if he’d just thought of something, and smiled.  “I look forward to it.”

Alfred turned and headed for the door, smoothing down his jacket.  He had not missed the way the police prefect’s eyes lingered on his left lapel.  He had half a mind to dash upstairs and toss that infernal travel document in the safe, where he should have put it in the first place.  But as Alfred pushed open the door to the dining hall, the sound of loud, baritone singing obliterated any other thought. 

It was coming from the middle of the cafe.  Where the four Germans sat.  A chorus of _Die Wacht am Rhein_ rose above the din of the crowd.  The piano was mute, its player sat, staring at his hands.  Angelique stood beside him, dumbstruck with disgust.  She caught Alfred’s eye and jerked her chin at the officers.  Alfred fidgeted with his cuffs and ducked his head.  He didn’t like it any more than she did, but there was nothing _he_ could do, he thought, as he made his way along the side of the cafe and up to his bar. 

Alfred poured himself a drink, noting as he did, the Austrian was no longer there.  He allowed himself a grin as he drank his whiskey straight down before nearly spitting it out again. 

The sound of a piano broke over the singing.  The melody, unmistakable.  As was the player.  It was the Austrian, playing _Le Marseillaise._ He looked up at Angelique and nodded.  She began to sing.  Nervous glances and muttering broke out.  The Germans folded their arms and scoffed.  Angelique’s confidence waned — until the chorus of scattered voices began to unite. 

The door to the gambling room swung open.  Out stepped the prefect of police, momentarily dumbstruck by what he was hearing, until he began to sing too.  The chorus grew, overtaking the piano, the diners no longer needing it as they sang a second time.  The Austrian stopped playing and slipped away, back to his seat at the bar.  He and Alfred shared a look as he sat down.  The cat butted its head against his hand, purring its appreciation.

“Enough!” a voice called out in accented French.

The singing stopped abruptly.  Alfred’s ears rung in the ensuing silence.

The white-haired German stood in the middle of the crowd, a guiling grin stretching across his lips.  “I think that’s enough patriotism for one night.  My apologies.”  He laughed — the same herring gull caw from three nights ago.  The diners returned it with nervous chuckles.  “Please return to your meals.  My friends and I shall not disturb you again.”  His eyes swept the sea of faces and stopped when they landed on the police prefect.  Lingering between a table and potted Areca palm, Mathieu gave the vague impression he was willing himself invisible.  The white-haired German spotted him and strode over.

“This can’t be good,” Alfred muttered.  He shot a narrow-eyed glare at the Austrian, certain that whatever was about the happen was all _his_ fault.  The Austrian remained unmoved, sitting stoically in his seat.

The German officer leaned in, whispering something in Mathieu’s ear.  It was a few moments before Mathieu responded with a nod.  He led the German up to the bar.

“Monsieur Jones, may I introduce Major Beilschmidt?  Our newest…detective-in-residence, as it were.”

“Pleasure,” Alfred deadpanned.

But the Major was momentarily distracted by the Austrian at the far end.  His eyes narrowed, regarding the stranger with a curious expression.  He inhaled sharply and faced Alfred with a smile that did not reach his eyes.  “Apologies, Herr Jones.  You must know why I am here.”

Alfred shrugged.  “I can only speculate.”

“Then I shall get straight to the point, as I dislike mincing words.  There have been a series of incidents, all close to this very cafe.  One of our couriers, murdered in the medina.  A petty crook shot just across the street from your front entrance.  The disappearance of a very valuable travel document — useful to anyone wishing to leave, certainly, but perhaps even more dangerous in the hands of the Resistance.  Do you see the correlation?”

“Not really.  The medina is, and always has been, a thieves’ den.  And you’re not Ali Baba, Major.”

“I’m aware of that, Herr Jones.  I’m not looking for a treasure.  The medina can keep her secrets for all I care.  I’m after a person.”

“You’ll find all kinds in this city.”

“A Resistance operative,” the Major continued.  “Difficult to track, though we received a tip he arrived in Casablanca a few days ago.”

“And you thought he’d turn up here for a drink?”

“What I believe Major Beilschmidt is trying to ask,” Mathieu interjected, “without directly asking it, is you haven’t heard of or seen this person, have you?”

“Depends.  What’s he look like?”

“The reports are shoddy at best,” the Major said, with what Alfred thought to be an affected sigh.  “Everyone seems to think their neighbor is some high level Resistance member.  It makes weeding out false claims difficult.  Even the man’s reported name is…impossible.”

“And here I thought you just arrested everyone.” 

The Major gave a cold smile.  “Exactly my point about false claims.  Our best guess is this man has brown hair and is around your age.  We know you of your connection with Francis Bonnefoy.  And given that, were wondering if he may have let slip any information.”

“Francis knew better than to bring any of that stuff up,” Alfred said.  “I don’t tolerate parties, factions, or politics.”

“There you have it,” Mathieu said, with a self-satisfied smirk.  “Monsieur Jones: Casablanca’s very own diplomat-bartender.”

But the Major was undeterred.  “You have a rather — _lively_ — cafe, Herr Jones,” he continued.  “Such a diverse mix.  Reich supporters sitting shoulder to shoulder with revolutionaries.  You almost don’t know who to trust.  Which side is which?”

“Lucky for me, I don’t believe in ‘sides’, Major.”

The Major grinned and pulled out a notebook, thumbing through its pages.  “Right.  Tell me, when _did_ you form this philosophy?  Was it while you were suppressing the rebels in Nicaragua?  Or perhaps when you helped arm the Ethiopians against the Italians?  We have an entire dossier on you, Herr Jones.  It seems to me, you’ve played your part on two very distinct _sides_.”

“Which is why I don’t do that anymore.”

“I see.”  Major Beilschmidt closed his notebook and nodded at the police prefect.  “All right, Williams.  Close it down.”

“Close it — on what grounds?” Alfred demanded.

The Major gave Mathieu a significant look, but the police prefect was doing his best to keep his eyes averted.  The Major cleared his throat.  Mathieu gave a slight, almost imperceptible shudder.  He spotted the poker chip he had earlier given to the Austrian, still sitting on the bar, and picked it up, leveling an impassive glare at Alfred.

“I am shocked, _shocked_ to discover gambling going on here.”

The Major clasped his hands behind his back and strode off.  He then paused and spun around on his heels, as if he had just thought of something.  His lips curled in a sneer.

“That was a bold song choice, piano player.”

The Austrian looked up.  “Perhaps to some.” 

The Major stepped closer.  “ _…Ich kenne Sie…._ ”

There was a sadness in the Austrian’s eyes that belied the scornful twist of his lips as he answered: “ _Das glaube ich._ ”

The Major’s eyes widened as a vision only he could see appeared before him.  He shook his head in disbelief. 

Alfred, who had watched the entirety of this exchange from behind the bar, felt something clench in his chest.  An oddly overprotective urge overcame him.

“All right, show’s over.  Quit pesterin’ my customers,” he interjected, drawing the Major’s attention away from the Austrian.

The Major regarded him with a cool expression.  “They are not yours anymore.”  He nodded at Mathieu.  “Captain.”

The police prefect blew his whistle.  It was as if someone had gone and pulled the plug on all the sound.  It drained away – the piano’s music, Angelique’s singing, the people talking – dissipated in the silence that followed. 

Mathieu cleared his throat.  “By order of the Vichy police, this establishment is closed until further notice.” 

The crowd looked around in shared confusion, until: “That means get out,” Mathieu thundered.  “Anyone remaining on this premises will be arrested.”

The screech of a hundred chairs followed this pronouncement. 

Mathieu and the Major waded through the cafe, herding customers from the back like sheepdogs.  The three German officers that had accompanied the Major took up posts by the front entrance.

The Austrian slowly stood.  “Herr Jones, if it’s all the same to you, I would like that drink now.  I feel you and I have much to discuss, and our timetable has been cut drastically short.”

Alfred nodded, mind still working to catch up with all that was happening.  “Go through there.”  He nodded at the doorway behind him.  “Up the stairs to the right.  My office.  Don’t make a sound.”

The Austrian nodded and hastened around the bar as the crowd thronged for the door. 

A few customers passed Alfred with questions in their eyes, but most avoided looking at him altogether. Alfred preferred it that way.  He lit a cigarette, watching the last ones trail out. 

Angelique approached.

“What’re you still doing here, kid?  Didn’t you hear Monsieur le Préfet?  You want to get arrested again?”

Angelique rolled her eyes.

“Where’s your accompanist?”

“Are you kidding?  He was one of the first out the door,” Angelique scoffed, sliding onto a bar stool.

“You got somewhere to go?”

Angelique nodded.

“Good, ‘cause the bar’s closed,” Alfred said, eyeing Mathieu and the Major as they made their final inspection of his Place.  Really only the Major seemed to concern himself with checking in every corner and behind every column.  Mathieu just trailed along after him with a bored expression, checking his watch.

When it was apparent no rogues could be wrung from the shadows, Mathieu and the Major headed back to the bar.

“Well, Major,” Mathieu began, “as it is still early, I know an excellent bistro on the boulevard, if you’d be so inclined to join me for some wine and a small bite.”  A smile expertly animated his otherwise indifferent face.

But the Major seemed once again distracted.  His sharp eyes continued to scan the café.  “…No, I – “  He paused, eyes fixing on something behind the bar.  “Where does that go?”

“My apartment,” Alfred said.  “And no, you can’t come up for coffee.”

The Major blinked, looking lost for a moment.  “…Of course.  Excuse me.”  He turned back to Mathieu.  “My apologies, Captain, but I have some – paperwork – I need to go over.  Good night.”

The Major and his officers left.  Mathieu waved them good-bye with a smile that vanished into an inscrutable glare the instant the door closed.

Alfred put out his cigarette and shook his head.

“You have something you wish to say to me?” Mathieu said.

“None that would be appropriate in front of a lady.”

Mathieu turned, surprised to find Angelique sitting at the bar. 

“Will you walk her home?” Alfred said.  “Make sure she gets there safe.”

Angelique shot a piercing look at Alfred.  “Don’t bother.  I can manage myself.”  She drew her shoulders back proudly. 

“But it would be my pleasure,” Mathieu said, settling beside her.  “Your singing was exquisite.”

Angelique eyed him a moment before uttering out a clipped “Thank you.”

A smile started to return to Mathieu’s face – one that was genuine – but it stopped short when he saw the bruise on her cheek.

“Mademoiselle, what happened?”

Angelique’s eyes narrowed.  “Your police.”

Mathieu swallowed.  His eyes fell to the floor as he fidgeted with the ring on his finger.  “My apologies.  Please, let me walk you home.”

Angelique glanced at Alfred, who gave her a reassuring look.  “All right,” she sighed.

With a shy smile, Mathieu offered her his hand.  She reluctantly took it and stood.  Alfred saw them out then locked up, pausing to rest against the door.  His eyes slipped shut against the dull ache pounding in his temples.  Christ, what a night.

A loud yowl startled him.  His eyes flew open to see that damn cat sitting at his feet, ears perked up and eyes wide. 

Alfred groaned.  “Don’t you know better?”  He went to unlock the door.  The cat crouched with a low growl.  “All right, fine.  Go upstairs.”     

The cat darted around his legs, a grey streak soon lost in the shadowy stair well.  Alfred followed shortly after, making sure to grab a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from the bar on his way.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Mathieu “I’m-Dead-Inside” Williams is not such a scoundrel after all!  Well, look who finally updated after more than a year, heh whoops.  I had the first half written and knew where I wanted to go with the rest, but couldn’t quite figure out how to get there – until I re-watched “Casablanca” for some much-needed inspiration.  Thank you, Claude Rains, for your excellent performance as Captain Renault (I think I love you more than Bogey)! 
> 
> Items of Note for this chapter:
> 
> -La Marseillaise, the French national anthem, was banned by the Vichy government, which is why Al freaks out when Angie starts singing it
> 
> -the signet ring Mathieu wears is an alteration from the movie.  In the movie, a Resistance member shows Laszlo the Cross of Lorraine hidden under a ring’s gemstone insert.  The Cross of Lorraine was a signal and symbol of the Free French Forces led by de Gaulle.  It represented Free France during WW2.  In the story, Mathieu’s is intended solely to be a family heirloom, like he tells Alfred. 
> 
> -Alfred’s line “You must despise me then” is taken from the movie, though the context has been changed. In the movie, the crook Ugarte says it to Rick.
> 
> -Mathieu’s line “I sometimes wonder why you don’t return to America” is taken from, and a tribute to the movie.  The prefect of police, Captain Renault, says this to Rick.
> 
> -the Germans singing “Die Wacht am Rhein” and the following “La Marseillaise” chorus are both from, and a tribute to, the original movie.
> 
> -“I am shocked, shocked to find gambling going on here” is taken from, and a tribute to, the original movie.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> -Ich kenne Sie = I know you.   
> 
> -Das glaube ich = I believe so.
> 
>  
> 
> Next up: Major Beilschmidt realizes who that man at the bar is.


End file.
